The Affair of the Angels that Wept
by TARDIS Blue Carbuncle
Summary: While on a kidnapping case, Sherlock Holmes discovers that Moriarty has hired very dangerous and elusive employees. First fanfic ever. AU. ON HIATUS UNTIL END OF SEASON SEVEN OF DOCTOR WHO!
1. Prologue: A Letter in a Tin Box

**Author's Note: Hello. *Awkward silence as author thinks of what to say*. This is my first fanfic ever, so I'm still learning the ins and outs of this site. Please, please, please don't form an angry mob and come after me with pitchforks if I do anything that annoys you (constantly edit a chapter; take a long time to upload a new chapter; make long author's notes; etc.)**

**Disclaimers, check. I do not own Sherlock Holmes and his gang, nor do I own the world of Doctor Who. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's ghost would haunt me forever, and Steven "I Love Complex Story Lines" Moffat would just sue me. However, some minor characters are of my creation, such as Mr. Scott McCallister.**

**Reviews are the enemies of my enemies, so please don't be afraid to comment. Thank You!**

Editor's note:

In the aftermath of World War II, a battered tin dispatch box was found in the ruins of Cox and Co. Bank. Seeing the name on the lid, John H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, a man promptly carried the box to New Scotland Yard, whereupon it was submitted to examination. However, upon opening the box, a note was found on the inside of the lid. It read, "Do not under any circumstances remove, examine, or destroy the contents of this box until the year 2010." Heeding the note, the chief inspector placed a seal over the tin box's lock, and the box was placed in the Yard's most secure safe, where it had remained until 1 January 2010.

At 12:01 A.M., the Yard's best forensic scientists unsealed the box, and examined the papers for authenticity. Rumors claimed that the box contained the famed owner's notes on an even more famous man, and yet the scientists were disappointed to find only one narrative. Yet, these papers were found to be authentic in every way. The following is a typed copy of Dr. Watson's scrawl, but otherwise it is an exact copy. The papers were preceded by a letter, neatly folded, and placed on top of the stack of papers.

For the reader's sake, I must make one more comment. The handwriting on the note found on the inside of the lid matched neither the letter, the sample of Dr. Watson's handwriting, nor the narrative.

Now, I present to you the papers found in the old tin dispatch box.

Mr. Loyde Cruthar, Editor-in-Chief

To Whom It May Concern:

Throughout my years of intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I had endeavored to keep a record of the many instances he had displayed those singular powers of deduction, for which he is now widely known. Years after I had penned our final published adventure, under the title of "The Shoscombe Old Place", the public has eagerly devoured my sensational and sadly unworthy accounts of my friend's remarkable ability.

It has come to my attention that there are those who wonder at Holmes' drastic change in personality following the events I had chronicled under "The Final Problem"...

"... Doyle himself had called upon me numerous times to ask the very question the public had been posing him," I told my celebrated friend one summer day in 1931.

By this time, I was physically unable to leave my Sussex cottage. Some days, and this one in particular, I was confined to a rocking chair by the west window. Holmes' visits, however brief, abated my ennui and pain.

Holmes sat in the darkest shadows behind me, contemplating the implications of my news. While he sat brooding, I shifted my gaze from the door opposite Holmes to the window next to me, careful to keep my eyes away from him. I settled my gaze on the bees I had kept for nearly twenty years.

After a long minute, I heard Holmes mutter, "I presume you refrained from giving the truth of The Event?"

I sighed and shook my head. "What else could I have done? I evaded questions from all fronts for years. The readers, Doyle, Gregson, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, your brother; all of them have noticed. It's a wonder I have not confessed." Against my better judgment, I turned to face Holmes. My eyes, even if they had been as sharp as in days gone, could not pierce the shadows in which he sat.

I chose my next words with care.

"Holmes," I began, shifting my gaze to my feet, "The Doctor has examined my recent symptoms; he still has no diagnosis. However, he has informed me that I am weeks... perhaps months... from death."

I opened my mouth to continue, but Holmes' voice, with a strange metallic ring that I never grew accustomed to, cut in with: "Watson, it pains me to say this to as old a friend as yourself, but you are the most deplorable liar I have ever known. That or the Doctor lies."

I smiled at the obvious impossibility of his last sentence. I began to chuckle, but it was instantly cut off by a sudden, searing pain in my lungs, and I ended with a severe bout of coughing. I stared at my hand, horrified to see a few small droplets of blood. Beyond my hand, the shadows shifted, and when I blinked, Holmes stood before me in the light, with a glass of water in his outstretched hand.

A look of great concern was frozen on his stony face.

With shaking hands, I took the glass from him and drank heavily. I set aside the empty glass and admitted to Holmes (who had retreated to the shadows while I was occupied), "Your powers have neither dimmed nor cease to amaze me. In truth, I may fall asleep tonight and never rise again." I paused to gather courage, unsure of how Holmes would respond to either my admission or my next statement. "If the truth... If the truth were revealed now, it would injure my reputation in no way. I have no intention of revealing the account of The Event within my lifetime, for your sake, but I want to set The Event to paper before I am unable to do so."

I could not see Holmes, but I am certain that he waved aside the comment as he did during our Baker Street days.

"I appreciate your concern," said he, "but nothing from here to Hell can harm me now, certainly not a friend such as you. Nothing had harmed me since..."

I finished his sentence with one word:

"Reichenbach."

"... And the Weeping Angels."

"And Moriarty! And the Doctor!"

"If it was permission you sought," Holmes said, laughing, "Then consider it granted."

For the second time that day, I dared to glance at Holmes. Upon his face was etched a look of contemplation; whether it was for my condition or for the Event, I cannot say. I sadly tore my gaze away, allowing him to move, and I was once again reminded of that terrible day of Holmes' "death" at Reichenbach.

To him, it was a death.

That is why I am determined to set the truth down while I still have the strength. From 1891 to now, Holmes and I have been living a lie. If these papers are found before the year 2000, please read no further, for the world of today is not ready for the secrets within these papers; secrets that have torn my friend asunder. However, I cannot bear to die without confessing to God, to man, and to myself. This is the account of the Affair of the Angels that Wept.

Sincerely,

John H. Watson, former M.D.

**One last note, then I'll quit. If you rearrange the letters of the editor, Loyde Cruthar, you should get "Arthur C Doyle". Thanks for reading the Prologue; I should have the first chapter up soon.**


	2. The Abduction, the Angel, and the Alley

**Author's Note: Do not fear; I am alive, and back. Allow me to make a few notes before the story continues. First of all, I moved the second chapter to the end of the first one, just to make the first chapter long enough to be considered such. I'm letting you know so that you don't get confused. That way, you have more to read in the chapters, but less chapters with which to deal. This warning is also in the 'new' Chapter Two.**

**Disclaimers are as mentioned in the prologue. Thanks to all who have reviewed so far, especially to the anonymous crowd. I welcome all reviews, even the ones that are more critical.**

**Thanks to those who have previewed, and to Gollum Slayer 576, my real-life not-so-beta-reader!**

**Sincerely,**

**TARDIS Blue Carbuncle**

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><p>January 6, 1891 marked the first step on our journey into the impossible.<p>

That day was a particularly strenuous day at my practice, and I was eager to return to my wife and Kensington home. After leaving the final house of my round, I hailed a cab, for the ground was blanketed with fresh snow and my old wound ached in protest to the cold. I climbed into the first hansom that approached and gave the cabbie my address; the cab slowly rolled forward and merged with the London traffic. Wearily, I watched the landscape outside. The sun, which had turned a warm shade of orange, was a mere sliver on the horizon, a dying light against the darkening sky. The bitter cold wind invaded the open cab and snow brushed at my cheek; despite the warm jacket I wore, I shivered violently. The gaslights appeared unfocussed and dim, and cast unearthly shadows. I turned my thoughts to my dear Mary, and the warm fire that would surely be burning when I arrived home.

The hansom suddenly lurched to a stop, jerking me from my reverie. "'Ere you are, guv'nor," the cabbie growled.

I slowly climbed out, only to find that I was not in Kensington at all, but in a small, trash-ridden _cul-de-sac_.* "Sir," I said, rather dumbly, "This is not Kensington."

"Oi know," said he as he climbed down from his perch on top of the hansom. He was a man of roughly six feet and powerfully built. The clothes he wore were threadbare, and a dirty, worn cap sat on top of a mess of sandy hair, concealing his eyes. His florid face twisted into a sinister smile, revealing a set of rotting teeth below a sandy moustache. His voice was low, scratchy and tinged with malevolence as he added, "Oi know this t'aint Kensingtun. And oi know who ye are, Sawbones Watson."

I was momentarily taken aback at the mention of my name. I stammered, "I... I do not believe we are acquainted. Why are we here?" For a moment, I was certain that this rogue brought me here to rob me of the few shillings I had on hand. Of course, I took into consideration that I was accosted because of my connection with a certain consulting detective, yet that seemed less likely. I did not have to wait long for an answer.

"Oi've got nuthin' against ye, nuthin' a' t'all," the cabbie sneered as he wiped his bulbous nose on his sleeve, "Just tha' your friend, tha' Consultin' D'tective, 'e is getting' too close for me an' me boss." As if on cue, another man emerged from behind the hansom. This man was far shorter, thinner and his hair was of a reddish-brown hue. His eyes were a dark brown, and an ugly scar ran across one of them. His lips curled into a sneer, and with one small forefinger, he pointed to the cabbie.

From behind his back, the cabbie drew his horsewhip and slapped it against his bare palm. "We've gotta teach 'im a lesson," the cabbie said, shrugging.

I had only my stick with which to protect myself, and recognizing the immediate danger, I moved into a defensive position. My own skills at self-defense were better than the average man; my time in Afghanistan and many years by Holmes' side taught me the importance of such proficiency. "Sirs," I said, slowly advancing and keeping my voice steady, "I do not wish to engage you, but if you continue to treat me in this threatening manner, I shall be forced to defend myself."

I raised my stick for a blow to the skull of the taller man.

"My dear Watson," a well-remembered voice said, laughing, "I would never dream of harming you. If we were to engage me, you would surely lose."

I gaped at the cabbie before me, whose Cockney accent disappeared, replaced by a cultured accent of the West End. The cabbie then flung his cap off his head, along with the sandy hair, the moustache, the bulbous nose, and the rotting teeth. Gone was he, and in his place stood the tall, emaciated form of Sherlock Holmes.

I stood still, with my stick above my head, flabbergasted. "Holmes," I sighed, dropping my arm, "I must confess, old chap, I was about to strike you! What the Devil are you doing in that get-up?"

"A case, Watson, the conclusion played out not an hour ago. It was a trivial problem, but not without some interesting details. Suffice to say that the criminal, a young man who put his talent of ax-wielding to nefarious uses, hired this hansom to claim his next victim. However, upon exiting the cab, he found himself at Scotland Yard." He laughed for a few seconds, then continued with, "Lestrade was quite surprised to see his quarry walk straight into him. I continued my act of the cabbie, intending on proceeding to Baker Street. However, when I caught sight of you attempting to hail a cab, I could not resist the chance for a dramatic appearance."

"Your penchant for dramatic appearances will one day be the death of me," I muttered. I then remembered the other man. "If you were posing as the cabbie," I asked as I pointed to the short man, "then who, pray tell, is this?"

"This man," Holmes explained as he turned to face the man, "is Mr. Seamus Aherne, the real driver of this particular hansom." Politely, the shorter man stepped forward and bowed to me. Holmes asked, "Watson, would your wife be so indisposed as to prevent you from accompanying me to Baker Street? I have a little problem that might require your assistance."

I thought over his proposition for a moment. No doubt, Mary would become concerned when I fail to arrive home, yet the thrill of the chase was far too much to ignore. I inhaled deeply and said, "Not at all, Holmes. Mary understands the importance of your cases. If she fails to—"

"If she fails to, tell her I abducted you."

My eyes widened and I gaped at my friend, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses. Before I could reply to his outrageous statement, Holmes held up his hand and explained, "Watson, I had commandeered the cab in which you were a passenger, did I not? I then took you to an abandoned alleyway, where no one could witness your death or hear you cry out, did I not? I then approached you in a manner that suggested that I meant to inflict serious bodily harm, did I not? Therefore, I believe one can say with utmost certainty that I had abducted you."

I replied, "Holmes, you have no need to abduct me. Since you are so insistent upon me accompanying you to Baker Street, I shall go willingly. This case must be of some interest; otherwise, you would not have bothered to stage this abduction. Besides," I said as I sidestepped Holmes and climbed into the hansom, "we shall catch our deaths if we remain out here much longer."

Holmes commented with a smile, "This is an unexpected and unorthodox abduction. I swear to God, I was certain I would be forced to solve another puzzle without you!" He too climbed in. Through the trapdoor above our heads, Holmes yelled, "Mr. Aherne, you may take the reins and proceed to Baker Street." To me, he whispered, "He shall give us the details of his case once we arrive."

"Do you mean to say Mr. Aherne is not only an accomplice of yours, but also your client?" I asked. Holmes, though, did not answer. His grey eyes were hooded and unfocussed, staring at something which no other mortal could see. His long, bony fingers formed a steeple on his lap, and his brow furrowed with concentration.

Mr. Aherne, on the other hand, made an amicable companion. Sensing the slightly uncomfortable silence and disliking it, he addressed me, saying, "Ye be wonderin' how I met Mr. Holmes, Doctor?"

I glanced up to him, surprised at the Irish brogue that tinged his words. "Yes, I am more than a little curious."

"As ye might tell," Aherne replied from his perch on top of the two-wheeler, "I was born and raised in Ireland. In the year seventy-eight, I came here to London for a better-paying occupation than what I had. Instead, I found trouble, in the form of a man that framed me for a murder I dinna commit." His deep voice filled with admiration as he said, "Mr. Holmes saved me from th' hangman's noose. From then on, if Mr. Holmes ever needed a cab, I would offer my services."

Aherne and I continued our engaging conversation until he pulled the cab in front of 221 Baker Street. In an instant, Holmes' eyes regained their inner fires; he shot out of the cab, ran to the door, unlocked it, and ran inside. As I climbed out of the cab, Aherne leaped from the top of the cab and landed next to me. I was shocked at his apparent disregard for his safety, but he merely laughed at my alarm. We proceeded to the door, where Mrs. Hudson was waiting for us. The perceptive landlady promptly noticed the signs of weariness and hunger in our faces, and with a resigned shake of her head, she silently led the two of us into Holmes' rooms.

Nothing had changed in the rooms since I had vacated them two years prior. A gentle fire was burning in the fireplace, casting a reassuring light in all corners of the room. The Persian slipper hung on its hook by the fireplace, the cigars lay in the coal-scuttle, and the jackknife remained embedded in the mantle. The chemical equipment sat on the laboratory table in one corner of the room, the couch and wicker chairs sat in their customary places, and the bullet-pocks V.R. still graced the wall. Strangely enough, the floor was cleared of the habitual clutter, and there was no sign of the newspaper that Holmes would throw upon the ground. Upon glancing to the dinner table, I saw three plates and three cups of tea.

"Mr. Holmes informed me that you were coming before he left this morning, Doctor," explained Mrs. Hudson as I settled myself in a chair by the fire. "I shall get dinner served shortly." The elderly woman gave a slight curtsy and departed.

_Ah,_ I thought, _Holmes lied to me. This __was__ a premeditated kidnapping._

I took one cup and took a sip, thankful for one comfort that had been denied me all day. Soon, Holmes emerged from his bedroom, clad in his mouse-colored robe, and he settled himself in the chair opposite mine. Aherne sat upon the couch, and I noticed that for such an ebullient man, his face now displayed worry, anxiety, and fear.

Holmes was the first to break the silence, saying, "Aherne, this is not the first time you have brought a case to me; pray, give us the account. You know my methods; leave no detail out, no matter how insignificant."

"I shall, and it involves an encounter very much like Dr. Watson's."

* * *

><p>"Hardly anything in this world scares me," Mr. Seamus Aherne began, "I am a God fearin' man, I hold no superstitions, an' I dinna fear what man might do to me. Yet, this dastardly business shakes me to the core." The man took another swallow of the glass of brandy in his hand before turning to me and asking, "Doctor, from what ye know of me, do ye think me a madman?"<p>

Without hesitation, I shook my head.

Aherne turned to Holmes and again asked, "Mr. Holmes, ye bein' a rational man above bias, do ye doubt my sanity?"

Holmes leaned back, formed a steeple with his fingers, and answered, "I do not doubt your sanity and level-headedness any more than I do Watson's."

Aherne laughed; the laugh was shrill and nervous, and he cried, "Gentlemen, if only I could be assured o' that! Suffice to say, ye be free to commit me to Bedlam once ye hear my story. This whole mess started with poor Eddie's angels."

"Mr. Edward Marshall, Eddie as we called him, was a good friend of mine; loyal, punctual, predictable, stalwart, and brave as a man could be. Very, very English. Yet, sumethin' came over him about one month ago. It was the fifth of October, an' I was on my route, waitin' for someone that needed my cab. That was when I spied him; Eddie was in an abandoned alley, like he was lost. I stopped my cab, climbed off, and walked to him. I noticed somethin' strange; he was standin' still, starin' at a statue. The statue itself wasn't worth all that attention; it was a white statue; marble, I think; a statue o' an angel, with its hands coverin' its face as if it were weepin'."

"I called out, 'Eddie! Why ye starin' at that angel like it's gonna kill ye?'

"He replied, 'Seamus, beware!'"

"'Beware what?' I asked, slowly gettin' closer."

"'The angel,' he answered in a hiss, 'The angel statues, Angels of Death.' Without turnin' to me, he said, 'Seamus, stay back! The angel just killed that little girl!'"

"'What little girl?' I had reason to be surprised; I never saw a little girl leave the alley nor was there one among the shadows. I said, 'Eddie, I see no little girl.'"

"'The girl stood here not a second ago. All I did was blink, Seamus. A single blink, and... and she died! Her neck... oh, my God, Seamus; her neck was broken! The angel broke her neck! The angel moved; it moved from the corner there,' he pointed to a corner about twenty feet away, 'to where it stands now. It stood over her broken body like a wolf stands over its prey. It was horrible, so horrible I blinked again, and then the girl's body disappeared. Tell me I am not hallucinating! God! Help me, Seamus!'"

"I had never seen Edward so distressed before. Under normal circumstances, he would be laughing the whole thing off and boundin' right up to where anyone could be hidin' and pull them out. All I said in response was, 'Eddie, I think yer over-tired. Maybe ye should go home an' get some sleep.' I moved to the statue, thinking to prove to him that it couldna move. I reached out to touch it.

With a shriek, Eddie was upon me. He grabbed my outstretched arm and he cried, 'Do not touch it, for God's sake, do not! It might kill you, too! What if that is how this angel kills?'"

"'Yer sayin' that this harmless angel statue broke a nonexistent girl's neck. By God, Eddie, yer made o' more than this!'"

"'Seamus, I saw it with my own eyes. That statue killed a girl, and made her disappear. I am not crazy! All I did was blink-' In his terror, he kept stepping backwards, away from me, and before he could finish the sentence, he 'ad backed straight into the statue."

Aherne paused, swallowed the rest of his brandy, and stared into the fire. Holmes eyes, which had been half-closed when Aherne began his testimony, were wide open. In a tone that I used only upon the most distressed of patients, I muttered, "Aherne, what happened?"

Aherne glanced up, and whispered, "All Hell broke loose."

Holmes raised one eyebrow, and then he leaned forward and asked, "Aherne, before I ask you to elaborate on that statement, could you tell me the conditions of that day? Was it morning or evening? How well could you see? Was the fog heavy, light…?" Sherlock Holmes' sentence died on his lips, and he ended it with a shrug.

Aherne said with determination, "It was noon, and there was little fog, so light tha' nothin' could hide in it. Even the shadows o' the alley weren't dark enough to hide anythin'. There was garbage, but there was no body, no girl, no killer statues. Yet, a second after Eddie bumped into the statue, I wish I coulda taken back my words."

"The second Edward came into contact with the statue, as I said before, all Hell broke loose. The wind picked up faster than I ever imagined it could, and the garbage in the alley swirled about. A searin' beam of light, almost like lightning, went from the sky, into the statue, and then into poor Eddie, and he shrieked in pain and terror. The light burned my eyes, an' I brought my arm up to cover my eyes. When I lowered my arm—" Aherne paused again, but this time only for a second. He inhaled, then said, eyes wide in terror, "He was right. The statue had _moved_. Now, instead of both hands over its face, it had one hand around Eddie's neck, the other at his forehead. And the screams; God the screams, Eddie never stopped screaming. In about a minute, it was over. One more flash o' light blinded me, and then, it was just Edward an' me. I was unharmed, but Eddie—"

Aherne sighed, and then murmured, "Eddie was weepin' an' moanin' like a child. I bundled 'im up into my cab, an' took him straight home. All the way, he was mutterin' more nonsense than the House o' Lords!" Aherne laughed again, and even Holmes smiled slightly. "I apologize," Aherne said, "This whole business has me questionin' my sanity. To continue, Edward's missus told me the next day tha' she had him committed to Albion Hospital for the Criminally Insane."

Aherne glanced into the empty glass he held, placed it on the table beside him, and took Mrs. Hudson's cup of tea into his hands. Holmes asked, "Aherne, how long did you have your arm covering your eyes at the initial burst of light?"

"No more than a second or two. I asked meself the very question, for my initial thinking was that someone had two statues, an' replaced them when Eddie an' I werena lookin'. But nothin' can move that fast in two seconds, and it was just Eddie an' me in the alley." Aherne drained the cup of tea and asked, "Mr. Holmes, anythin' else before I continue?"

Holmes shook his head and motioned for Aherne to continue. "The next step in this sequence of madness," said a calmer Aherne, "happened at Albion."

"Over time, I had written the whole affair off as somethin' we ate or drank that made us hallucinate. Edward may have seen somethin' I dinna, but if I were to believe that there were angel statues wanderin' about snappin' little girls' necks, may God see me rot. Unlike those of my soil, I am not prone to believe the old stories of faeries and the like; I needed proof that what I saw was true. About two months ago, which woulda been the eleventh of November, I gathered my courage and drove my cab to Albion Hospital to see Eddie. At first, the fat man at the desk wouldna let me in. I started yellin' at him, demandin' that I see Eddie, givin' him all the Gaelic oaths I knew, when someone placed their hand on my shoulder."

Mr. Aherne visibly shuddered. "I shut my large mouth and glanced up. There, towerin' above me, was a man whose appearance I was slightly familiar with. That man was Eddie's employer, a man who was the topic of so many dark whispers in the East End, accordin' to Edward when 'e was in his cups. The man's grey eyes, mere slits and deeply sunken into his white, domed forehead, bored straight through me. That giant head of his oscill... oscill... oscillated back and forth like a snake about t' strike. Baring his gleamin' white teeth, he smiled at me."

"'Ah, you must be Mr. Seamus Aherne. Edward Marshall has told me so much about you,' he said in a calm, yet slightly sinister voice, as if he knew everythin' about me. 'Such fiery spirit.' He turned to the man at the desk, gave him his name, and without another word, the two of us were allowed through."

"Ye wouldna believe the things I saw. Institutions like yer hospitals are supposed to help people... ah, I digress. Suffice to say, the place stank of excrement, far worse than the dirtiest streets of London or the barns where we keep the horses. The air rang with the cries of the mad; some called out names, some screamed at the top o' their lungs, and others muttered absolute gibberish. 'Twas all I could do not to run out o' the place."

"As we ascended a flight of dilapidated stairs, I asked Edward's employer, 'Why are ye here, mister? So far as I know, not even Edward's missus has come t' visit him. Why do ye, the least likely o' people?'"

"'And why do you?' he replied in that strange voice o' his, 'But we both know the answer to that question. You are his friend, concerned for his safety. I suppose that is why I am here; it was a result of my decision that he is confined here in the first place.' I tried to ask him what he meant, but the man continued with, 'You see, Mr. Aherne, for a few months now, something disturbing has been happening underneath my very nose. I do not know if Mr. Marshall has told you the extent to which I control. No? Very good; his discretion is vital to me, and he has never betrayed my trust. What you need to know is this: My employees have been disappearing. One day, they would be doing my bidding, and the next, they were gone, without a trace. I was at my wit's end; almost forty of my men were missing, and at the end of two months I had not a clue as to their whereabouts. Therefore, I had enlisted your friend to trace them, and discover what was happening. Not even I could have predicted this!' Those long fingers of his clenched, and his knuckles turned white, whiter than the walls o' the hospital, or what was left o' the white paint. Both o' us remained silent until we reached Eddie's cell."

"For a moment, he dinna know we were there. He sat in one dark corner, slender back toward us and bent in concentration, as if he were writing somethin'."

"I whispered, 'Edward?' But o'er the din o' his other cellmates, I wasna surprised that he dinna hear me. I cleared my throat and half-shouted, 'Eddie!'"

"The sight that beheld me made my blood run cold. The man before me wasn't even half the man he was. That once-muscular body was reduced to nothing; each limb, each finger was nothin' but a twig. His blonde hair was matted to his head, which was covered with dried blood. His face was sallow, his brown eyes dull and sunken deep into his head. His clothes were too large for him; they were nothin' more than rags, and they hung about his frame. He grinned at me, like a proper madman, and his once-white teeth were either rotting or missing. This change all took place in about two weeks. His employer's eyes widened. I gaped at him and asked, 'By God, Eddie, what happened?'"

"'The angels,' he replied. His voice had lost its jovial ring, and was nothin' but a croak. 'The Weeping Angels, the Lonely Assassins, whatever one may call them. The angels watch us through time... seeing all that was... all that is... and all that will be. They defy the laws of nature, Seamus, never growing older, never dying... always there. No one can conquer them, but they conquer all...' With speed that I wouldna have guessed he possessed, he lunged for the bars of the cell. I flung myself back, and Edward's employer retreated a couple o' steps. Eddie grasped the rusted bars with his wraith-like hands and screeched, 'Do not blink, Seamus. If you want to live, do not blink. I do not wish upon you the fate that had befallen so many others, and will befall millions more. Come closer; I need you to understand me.'"

"His employer and I did as he bid. He whispered, 'The angels... they are everywhere... they pervade every civilization, rooting themselves into whatever peoples they find. They are hunters, Seamus. The angels hunt every person of that civilization until the latter becomes extinct. They have done so on so many worlds... So many unknown worlds far beyond the reach of the imagination... so far flung. I hear them... they talk to each other, yet not moving their lips... their heathen language... so old...' Edward then began ramblin' to himself. Suddenly, his eyes cleared, and in a voice that resembled his voice of old, he hissed, 'The angels cannot be observed, Seamus. I do not know how, but as long as someone is observing them, they cannot move, they are stone. But beware, Seamus. The moment you turn your head away... the moment you blink... you die. They move so fast... as fast as lightning in the sky... we are doomed to die like their other victims...'"

"I waited while he continued on, mutterin' nonsense that made sense only to him an' his angels. 'The eyes… Eyes not the windows... they are the doors...'** he sang over and over. Once again, the light of sanity gleamed in his eyes, and he ran back into the depths of his cell. When he emerged from the darkness, I saw that he carried a book o' some sort. 'I wrote down everything the angels said, sir,' Eddie gasped to his employer, 'Everything they revealed to me in dreams… written in this journal. This explains everything, why everyone… is disappearing. I completed your task, sir! But at what cost? My sanity is shot, sir, I am gone!' He shoved the book into his hands. 'The angels have already begun their march of conquest,' Eddie continued in a madman's high-pitched voice, 'The angels began in the East End. This journal of a madman will solve some of your problems...' Eddie ended with a series of mutterings that I dinna understand. I opened my mouth to ask him somethin', anythin' to get his mind off the angels, when one o' the doctors barged into the hallway."

Here, Aherne shrugged. "That Doctor," he chuckled, "was probably madder than his patients! The man was a total whack! If anythin', he needed his own cell."

Holmes interrupted, "Aherne, can you please describe this Doctor? What was his name? And who is Edward Marshall's employer?"

"I'll be gettin' to the employer soon. As for the funny doctor, the man dinna give me a name. 'Just call me the Doctor', he half-giggled. His dark brown hair was tousled about, he wore a strange brown suit, a brown overcoat, and a pair of white shoes, the likes of which I'd never seen before. He marched straight to Eddie's cell and asked, 'Is this Edward Marshall?'"

"'Yes, it 'tis,' the employer replied, waving his hand to Eddie."

"'Edward, nice to meet you!' he cried, pumping Eddie's shadow of a hand. The mad Doctor grinned at me and said, 'D'you mind if I spend a tick alone with him? I'll just be talking with him about his Angels.'"

"'That is fine, we were just leavin',' said I. It took all my willpower to keep me from runnin' out o' that excuse for a hospital. Edward's employer's face remained stony, yet I could see in his eyes tha' sumethin' disturbed him. I hesitantly asked, 'Sir, what's botherin' ye?'"

"'Many things,' he replied, his mouth a thin line, an' his brows furrowed, 'The first thing I shall do is read the journal. Any information, even that of a madman, is better than none at all. Then, I shall have many things to think upon, but one thing above all.'"

"'An' what is that?'"

"The man turned to me, and stared right into my soul. 'Twas like he was tryin' to decide whether I was worth what he 'ad to say. Then, he whispered, 'Mr. Aherne, you knew Mr. Marshall, and from what Mr. Marshall claimed of you, you are a trustworthy and logical man. So if you can enlighten me, answer me this: what on earth could drive a man like Mr. Marshall to madness?' When I dinnae give an answer, he hissed, 'Precisely… nothing on Earth.' He stressed those two words, as if he were implying sumethin'. Then, we left the asylum. The employer went down one street, toward the East End. I offered to give him a ride to wherever he was walking, but the man just shook that snake's head o' his. I climbed onto my cab and drove to the stables, thinking over the events that surrounded poor Eddie. Then I remembered the name of Edward's employer. The man's name is Professor James Moriarty."

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><p><strong>* For those who think French looks like Greek, 'cul-de-sac' is the French word for 'blind alley', loosely and in this story it translates as 'dead end'.<strong>

**** The journal that Edward writes and this line is from the Doctor Who episode "The Time of the Angels". This is significant; I did not risk Moffat suing me so that I could have a dramatic line. No, Edward Marshall says this, and writes a journal, for a reason...**


	3. The First Disappearance

**Author's note: Hello, Reader. I'm sorry for not writing the second chapter sooner, but I had two monstrosities to deal with: school finals and NANOWRIMO. Now that both are over, I can once again focus on "The Angels That Wept." I have only two notes. One, I moved the contents of the second chapter to the end of the first, to make a longer chapter and to make less chapters with which the reader has to deal. So, this is technically the second chapter, and the first chapter is now comprised of more material.**

**Disclaimers are as mentioned in the prologue.**

**I looked up the meaning to Seamus Aherne's last name, and Aherne means 'Lord of horses'. Considering that Seamus is a cabbie... you get the coincidence. I do not have much else to say, other than that this: Please sit back, and find out what Sherlock Holmes plans to do. And remember: the review button does NOT turn you into a gas-mask zombie. Thanks!**

**TARDIS Blue Carbuncle**

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><p>Sherlock Holmes slowly leaned forward in his chair and stared at Mr. Seamus Aherne. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "Pardon me if my hearing is lax, but did you say that a Professor Moriarty employed Edward Marshall?"<p>

I must make a confession; I had never heard of this professor before that dark night in January. At the time, the name meant nothing to me, and I would have missed the connection altogether if it weren't for Holmes. With the hindsight that I have now, that name sends the coldest of shivers up my spine.

"You know tha' yer hearin's sharper than anyone's," Aherne replied, "Does tha' name mean anythin' to ye?"

"No," Holmes muttered to himself, "It can't be a coincidence! There is no possible way… And yet..." Holmes shot up from the couch and began to pace the room vigorously. Aherne opened his mouth to speak, but I placed my hand on his arm and shook my head. After years of living with Holmes, I learned that it was best not to disturb him. Holmes maneuvered around the room, his head sunk upon his breast, his eyes to the floor, and his thin hands behind his back. Before Aherne or I dared to speak, Holmes said only one thing. He said, "That's the link."

"What link?" asked I, "And what do you know about this professor?"

A knock on the door prevented Holmes from answering my question. He halted, grinned, and muttered, "Lestrade has an urgent case for us."

"How can you be certain that it's Lestrade?"

"You know my methods. I heard the distinct noise of a police boot upon the stair, and the rhythm of the steps was quick, too quick to be that of a man walking up the stairs. Therefore, it must be a policeman with an case that needs my urgent attention. Lestrade, unlike most men at the yard, knocks twice quick, pauses before a third knock and a gentle kick to the door, a trick I taught him many years ago. Therefore, it must be our Lestrade. Do come in, Inspector!" This he directed toward the door, and Lestrade entered. The rodent-faced inspector glanced at the three of us before asking, "Am I interrupting something, Mr. Holmes?"

"Where?" Holmes asked. "The crime, where did it occur?"

Momentarily dumbfounded by the suddenness of the query, Lestrade was barely able to stammer, "Montague Street."

Dashing out the door, Holmes shouted, "Lestrade, give me the details in the cab. We haven't a moment to lose!"

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><p>"His name was Mr. Tobias Lee," Lestrade said gravely as our cab rattled to our destination, "He was a geologist at the British Museum, and he rents an apartment at 103 Montague Street, which was where we found the body."<p>

Holmes grunted, and he chewed at the end of his clay pipe in agitation. Lestrade continued with, "Apparently, two hours ago, at about three-thirty this afternoon, the landlady, Mrs. Turner, admitted a client who wished to speak with Mr. Lee about some stones he had. Ten minutes later, the landlady heard the client scream, and then the scream suddenly cut off. Then, she heard her employer shout for her in earnest. Mrs. Turner claimed that she took a while to climb the stairs, but when she entered the study, she found Mr. Lee lying on the floor, dead. By the time she found a constable, it was three-forty-five. I made sure then scene was secure before I left to fetch you."

"What about the client?" Holmes asked.

Lestrade glanced up to Holmes, a weary look on his face. "That is precisely what is bothering me, and why I went to get you so quickly. There was no sign of the client. At first, I thought that Mrs. Turner murdered her employer and made up the client. Yet, several people in the neighboring houses saw him. No one can bribe that many people and get away with it, so she must be telling us everything. So where did the bugger go?"

Holmes smiled at the inspector. "Lestrade," he gasped, with a little mockery and perhaps a little pride in his voice, "you seem to have more than your typical amount of wit about you today."

Lestrade blushed and shrugged, murmuring, "Mr. Holmes, a man does not spend fourteen years working beside you without learning something. Back to the crime, I must warn you to prepare yourselves; the scene is… gruesome."

"In wha' way?" Mr. Aherne shouted from the front of the hansom. At Holmes' request, the Irish cabbie drove us in his own hansom to the scene; I could only fathom that Holmes believed that there was a connection between Aherne's problem and Lestrade's, though what that connection was, I did not know.

Lestrade tugged at his collar and answered, "I can find no words to describe the scene. It's… impossible. The very atmosphere is a bit… constricting."

At that moment, the cab rolled to a stop in front of 103 Montague Street, a brown brick building in decent condition. Sherlock Holmes was the first to emerge from the cab, followed by Lestrade. While Aherne tied the horse to a nearby post and threw a blanket over the hardworking creature, I watched Holmes as he conducted a desultory examination of the ground, the police gathered around the building in question, and the buildings around us. He murmured something about needing light, and I called over one of the constables to allow the use of his bulls-eye. After a few minutes, Holmes stood and finally joined Lestrade and Aherne inside.

Mr. Lee's sitting room was in good condition, though a trifle cluttered; in my mind, it was only to be expected of someone his occupational field. The only decoration to grace the green-patterned walls was that of science: a periodic table, a chart of several types of what I perceived as rocks, and the like. Several rocks and various tools lay on the mantle of the fireplace, which still had ash lying in its bowels; even more rocks, some gorgeous and some dull, lay on the two tables that sat in the room, and the air smelt quite dusty despite the lack of dust. The air was cold, and I shivered from the physical cold as well as the cold of dread and death that settled upon my shoulders.

Upon the red carpet lay the unfortunate Mr. Tobias Lee, late geologist of the British Museum. His body laid face-up, with his glassy, unfocused brown eyes staring up at nothing. His brown hair was shot with gray and receding; his long, well-kept beard was the same, and his mouth was twisted into what I can only describe as a silent scream of pain and terror; I had seen faces like his, but only on the battlefields of Afghanistan that I had left twelve years ago. Mr. Lee wore a threadbare, brown suit stained with mud, yet his shoes were immaculate. His right hand lay open and empty, stretched out to his side, but his left hand grasped a chisel, which was coated in a fine layer of white dust.

All of this attracted my attention as an author, yet only one thing pulled at my instincts as a doctor: Mr. Lee's head lay at a ninety-degree angle to his neck.

"Holmes," I said as I knelt down by the cadaver to look for any other signs of injury, "this man died of a broken neck." I ran my fingers along the bones of the neck to confirm my suspicions, and I added, "In fact, the second cervical vertebra has been completely separated from the third."*

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes said as he, too, knelt by the body. In that familiar fashion of his, Holmes drew out his magnification glass and immediately set himself to examining the body. His piercing eyes took in the dirt under Mr. Lee's fingernails, the stains on his suit, and other minute details that I myself did not see. Then, Holmes leaped to his feet and went around the room, running his glass over the windowsill of the only window in the room, scurrying across the floor on his hands and knees, and often staring into space and mouthing to himself. Holmes moved to the door that led, in all likelihood, to the bedrooms and tried to turn the knob, but it refused to budge. Holmes frowned, and moved back to the window, and examined it. All the while, my friend reminded me of a bloodhound searching for a lost scent. Then, he moved to the fireplace and examined the ashes in the fireplace. His eyes brightened and he let out a gasp of success as he withdrew his hand, revealing a partially burned photograph.

Lestrade, Aherne, and I rushed over to Holmes and stared at the photograph he delicately held in his hand. In the portion of the picture that was there, I saw a tall, thin, pale man in his fifties dressed in a black suit. His watery grey eyes were deeply sunken into his head, which had a high, domed forehead and a protruding face. The man had one hand outstretched to his side, his legs crossed at the ankles, and his body leaned toward the outstretched arm, as if he was leaning against something. Yet, from the inch or so of paper that remained between the hand and the burnt edge, I saw nothing. Holmes turned to me and grinned as he pointed to the photograph and muttered, "This is it… this is his trip. A tiny one, Watson, but it will cost him!"

Lestrade turned to Holmes and asked, "Him? Who is this 'him' that you refer to, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes ignored Lestrade's question and grasped Aherne's shoulder, handing the photograph to him and asking, "Mr. Aherne, is this Edward Marshall's employer, the man you saw at the asylum?"

I studied Aherne's face as he studied the photograph. For a moment, I read confusion in his eyes, and his mouth curved into a frown. I grew worried, wondering for that split moment if Holmes was, for one of the few times in my time with him, wrong. Then, a sigh of relief escaped my lips as those dark brown eyes suddenly lit up with recognition and Aherne whispered to Holmes, "Yes. I must admit, I dinna recognize 'im at first. The domed forehead is the same, the eyes the same, and tha' grin is exactly the same, Mr. Holmes. I'm thinkin' tha' the man at the asylum was in disguise."

"Excellent, Mr. Aherne," Holmes exclaimed, "I knew I could rely upon your ability to recall faces rather than height or clothing, both being highly alterable. Lestrade, will you take me to Mrs. Turner? I need to speak with her about the missing client."

Lestrade nodded and motioned for a constable standing by the door to begin the rest of the police procedure. Then, we followed Lestrade downstairs and into the kitchen, where two other constables stood by a stout middle-aged woman. The woman fiddled with the handkerchief in her hands, and she let out a few sobs. She glanced up at our entrance, and I noticed that her blue eyes were red with tears. Those desperate eyes moved to Holmes, and brightened. "Mr. Holmes," the lady gasped in a high voice, "I haven't seen you since you moved out ten years ago!"

"Ten years and seven months ago, Mrs. Turner," Holmes sighed.

Lestrade and I both turned to Holmes, and Lestrade asked, "You know this woman, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, you don't remember, Lestrade?" Holmes said with a roll of his eyes, "These were my old lodgings before I moved in with Dr. Watson.** Now please, Mrs. Turner, tell us everything you know about what happened here. Leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant the detail."

Mrs. Turner nodded and, between sobs and wrapping her finger around a curl of her light brown hair, stated, "Well, this afternoon, I was in the kitchen. The doorbell rang at about three-thirty, and it was a client. He handed me his calling card, and then went upstairs as fast as he could go. He was short man, bald, and had beady eyes. He had a pair of pince-nez* perched on his nose and I remember that he had a brown folder with him. After he disappeared into Mr. Lee's consulting room, I went back into the kitchen. For ten minutes, everything was fine. Then I heard a scream. I didn't recognize the high voice, so it had to be the client. The scream went on for about a second, and then just cut off. Then, I heard Mr. Lee call for me. I went upstairs as fast as I could, but you know about my arthritis, Mr. Holmes. It has gotten worse since we last met, and I took a while to get up all those stairs. By the time I did…" Mrs. Turner collapsed into hysteric sobs. Holmes laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and asked, "Do you still have this client's calling card, Mrs. Turner?"

Mrs. Turner nodded, stood, and walked to one of the counters in that small, tidy kitchen. Opening one of the drawers, she muttered, "I never throw away anything that isn't older than two years, so I have it here somewhere." Then, she pulled out a small slip of paper and handed it to Holmes. Holmes glanced at it for a few seconds before handing the paper to me. This is what the card read: 'Mr. Martin Cable, electrical engineer and experimenter. 56 Wordsworth Road.'

"Thank you," Holmes said to Mrs. Turner. Then, he turned to Lestrade and motioned for him to step aside. Lestrade, Aherne and I followed Holmes as he swiftly exited the house and into the crisp, winter air. By this time, the night was pitch-black, and the only light by which we had to see was that of the constables' bulls-eyes. Holmes took one and continued to walk, fast and unceasing, and it was all I could do to keep up. Holmes shouted over his shoulder, "Lestrade, I take it that your men have searched every room of this building with no success in finding the client?"

"Yes, sir," Lestrade said, panting, "I even tried that trick of yours for finding secret rooms. The client, or his body, is not in the building." Holmes showed no sign of slowing down, and had circumvented the building and came to a stone wall. Lestrade shouted, "Holmes, what could you give me? I need answers, and I need them now."

Holmes swiftly turned on his heel and faced the three of us. His eyes darted from Lestrade to me to Aherne before cryptically whispering, "There's more than just a client missing from that room. There is also a rock specimen gone."

"What d'ya mean?" Aherne asked, "How d'ya know?"

Holmes sighed, then said, "The chisel that Mr. Lee held in his left hand was covered in white dust, which told me that he was taking a sample from a specimen, yet when I glanced through the rooms, I saw no specimen that matched that particular type of rock. However, I did notice some of that same dust on the floor. This trail led to the window, yet when I tested the window, I saw that it was locked from the inside, and with my glass, I saw that the lock had been rusted over, yet some of that rust has recently been scrapped off. This meant that the window had not been open for a long time prior to the murder, and it meant that Mr. Lee was also a very cautious man and was scared of possible theft. Yet, the damaged rust told me that it was the means of escape for either the client or the murder, or both. Because of Mrs. Turner's presence, the client could not have gone out through the front door. The door to the sitting room was also locked, therefore the client could not have gone to the roof. You said yourself that you had searched every room in the house, and I know from experience that there are no secret rooms. This leaves me with three questions, Lestrade: Did the client climb out the window and Mr. Lee locked it behind him, did Mr. Lee toss him out and then lock it, and if so, why?" Holmes moved closer to the fence, and continued with, "The trail of dust, as I said, led to the window, which I saw led to the back courtyard. The amount of dust on the chisel was a large amount, too much to be a sample from a small specimen. Therefore, the specimen has to be something of considerable size, perhaps as large as a man. I decided to follow the dust, and it leads me here."

Holmes tossed the bulls-eye upon the top of the black stone wall and placed one foot on a crate that lay near the wall, which was at least a foot taller than my friend. I cried, "Holmes, what the devil—", yet before I could continue, Holmes vaulted over the wall in one leap and disappeared on the other side. Patting my pocket to make certain that my gun was there, I ran after Holmes. Behind me, I could hear Aherne say, "Well, dinna have much of a choice, Inspector." With much effort, I pulled myself to the top of the fence, and at least looked about before I leaped down.

The garden was small, roughly the span of a small room, and covered with snow, and therefore I located Holmes quickly. He was on his hands and knees, examining the ground by a large indentation in the snow. This was roughly three feet by two feet in diameter, elliptical, and went deep into the snow. I turned, and saw Aherne and Lestrade run up. Holmes jumped to his feet, pointed to the indentation, and cried out, "Lestrade, there was something here, something heavy, not too long ago!"

Lestrade glanced at the imprint, nodded, and stroked his chin, saying, "Mr. Holmes, is this what's left of the so-called specimen?"

"There is no other alternative," Holmes replied, a frown playing on his face, "and yet there is something here that defies all laws of nature."

"What is it?" asked I.

Holmes pointed to the gap, then to the ground around us, and said, "Watson, please look carefully. Do not merely see, but observe!"

I did as he bid. My eyes darted from the tall, sparse figure of my friend to the white ground beneath me. I stared intently at the gap, then at the ground around it, which had no marks whatsoever save the footprints of Holmes, Lestrade, Aherne, and I. I took notice of the walls, the wooden door that led to the inside, and the eerie shadows that the bulls-eye played upon the scene. I glanced back up to Holmes in defeat, but Holmes did not chide me for my inability to see. He merely shrugged and said, "There are no footprints. Watson, aside from the prints we have made, there are no footprints leading from the window, not to this imprint, nor away from this."

"But, if there are no footprints, then no one could have come out this way," Lestrade added.

"Precisely," Holmes said through clenched teeth. For a moment, he stood still, his chin upon his breast in thought. The rest of us waited for him in earnest; Lestrade checked his pocket watch, Aherne shuffled his feet in the snow and shivered from the cold, and I watched my friend as his mind raced. Then, Holmes brought his hands up, blew on them, and rubbed them together. "There is nothing more I can learn out here," he sighed, "Lestrade, I shall not keep you any longer."

"What should I do?" Lestrade asked. "This case is becoming more and more complex by the minute!"

"Under normal circumstances, I would disagree," Holmes muttered, running one of his thin, delicate hands through his black hair, "Under normal circumstances, the unusual crime has more damning clues than an average one. Yet…" Holmes drifted off, his eyes downcast in thought. Then, he ordered, "Lestrade, keep an ear open for any missing persons report that matches the description Mrs. Turner gave us. That way, if the calling card is false, we may still have a name to this client. Watson," he added, lifting his eyes to me, "You and Aherne shall take a cab to Albion Hospital. I need you to interrogate Mr. Edward Marshall, and extract as much information as you can."

I nodded, though many doubts swirled through my mind, one of these being how I would gain information from Mr. Marshall when Aherne, his closest friend, had little luck. I asked, "What shall you do, Holmes?"

Holmes did not answer my question right away. He waved at Lestrade as if he were dismissing a student and insisted, "Go, Lestrade, I am certain that you have official duties to attend to." My friend turned to Aherne and ordered, "Pull your cab up by this fence. Watson shall be waiting for you there. Here," Holmes withdrew some bills from his pocket, took Aherne's small hand in his own bony one, and thrust the bills into Aherne's hand. "This is for the work you've done tonight. And do not protest," Holmes insisted when the shorter man opened his mouth in objection, "Your service is appreciated." Aherne glanced at the bills in his hand, raised his head to my friend, and gave a short nod before turning away and running for the fence.

Holmes turned to me, glanced furtively around for bystanders, then whispered, "Watson, this case… you know my maxim. 'Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'. However…"

"What is it, Holmes?" asked I.

Holmes pulled out his pipe and chewed at the end. "Watson, I confirmed the fact that there was only one way for the client to have disappeared: out the window overlooking the courtyard. However, there are no footprints here to support that. Yet, there is no evidence to support a theory that he vanished in any other direction, or is within the house. I have eliminated the impossible, yet in doing so I have also eliminated my probable and my improbable. I am left with nothing save the impossible. This case is a paradox. An unsolvable paradox…" Holmes shook his head and smiled, muttering, "I do not depend upon emotion and intuition often, Watson, yet my intuition tells me that I am missing something vital to this case and to Aherne's. Either that, or…" Holmes sighed, and whispered, "I merely require time to think. Perhaps Lestrade will find the identity of the client, and that will lead to further information. This trail is cold, and I cannot make bricks without clay."

Holmes and I slowly walked to the wall. Without the crate to assist us, Holmes used my hand as a foothold, and then reached down to pull me up once he was on top of the wall. After my feet touched the ground, Holmes grasped my shoulder and said, "Watson, report back to Baker Street at, say, seven o'clock. I perceive that you have your gun; you might need it."

"I shall," I said as Aherne's cab pulled to the curb next to us. As I climbed in, Holmes shouted, "Aherne, go inside with Watson. If his presence as a doctor fails him, Mr. Marshall might be more inclined to speak with you."

"Understood, Mister Holmes," Aherne shouted back as he whipped the reins and rolled into the street. I stared out, and watched Holmes stand on the curb, staring after us, a shadow in the dim light of a lamp. I continued to watch until the darkness swallowed Holmes. Aherne remained uncharacteristically silent, focused on maneuvering his way in the dark toward our destination and avoiding the other drivers that were out. I settled in my seat and prepared myself for the meeting at the asylum.

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><p><strong>* The cervical vertebrae are the bones in a human's neck, seven in all. The first one, the C1 vertebra, is protected by the skull and has a stable, less mobile joint with the C2 vertebra than the rest of them, so a break is hard in that position. The break in Mr. Lee's case is high in the neck.<strong>

**** In 'The Musgrave Ritual', Holmes tells Watson that he took lodgings in Montague Street, close to the British Museum, right after he left college.**

**Thanks again to all who have reviewed so far, to Gollum 576 for editing this for me, and I'm again sorry for making you wait for this chapter. This might be boring right now, but I promise you that this is the most boring bit. The story will get more exciting and the Doctor will appear very quickly…**


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